


I Call Him Dad

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Family Bonding, Gen, M/M, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 17:43:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8762767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Alberto Moreno arrives in Liverpool. When an innocent fan question points out his resemblance to two rather famous Liverpool legends, Stevie and Xabi adopt him. The care and maintenance of one Alberto Moreno, human equivalent of a puppy, isn't easy. Then again, parenting never is.





	1. How It All Started

Nobody knows exactly who started it. _When_ it started, however, was a much easier question. Most of the lads said it started when the rumor mill started saying Alberto Moreno was coming to Liverpool. Those rumors were, for once, not complete bullshit, and eventually they were confirmed.

Some of the lads—Joe Allen, mainly, said that really, it had started in Istanbul in 2005, when Xabi Alonso and Steven Gerrard kissed, on camera, in front of thousands of people, in what may well be one of the most memorable football kisses in recent memory.

That kiss had enthralled the hearts and minds of millions, who, joking or not, referred to the pair as Gerlonso.

(The boys didn’t help themselves, gushing about each other whenever they were asked—it was disgustingly sweet).

One of these enterprising fans found that Alberto, poor innocent thing that he was, rather resembled Gerrard… and Alonso. It wasn’t long before the headlines started reading “GERLONSO’S LOVECHILD GOING TO LIVERPOOL?”

Now this was all well and good. Until the team found out about it. Not from the papers (the boys are professionals. They don’t read the papers—at least not the transfer rumors. Joe Allen always reads the politics, science, and business sections over breakfast.) but from Twitter.

This is how it reached the team: Adam Lallana and Rickie Lambert had just signed, and the club wanted to do some sort of “getting-to-know-you” video, and they wanted it to be interesting. What better way to make the fans feel closer to the players than by having the fans themselves be the interviewers? It was decided that Twitter was the best way to do this—the players themselves could screen the questions (mostly marriage proposals, and a few less _decorous_ suggestions).

It was decided that Jordan Henderson, Adam Lallana, and Rickie Lambert would do the interview (a good choice, as all three already knew each other from England duty, and Lallana and Lambert had been teammates at Southampton). Everything was fine until the question arose that would change the team forever.

“Do you think Alberto Moreno looks like a cross between Steven Gerrard and Xabi Alonso?” Jordan asked Adam, snickering.

Adam paused a moment, tilting his head and imagining all three players. His eyes widened as he said yes and chuckled.

Jordan went home that night and did a strategic Google search, hoping to not have his mind scarred or his image of his hero and role model tarnished. He came away with one word: Gerlonso.  (He also had to use brain bleach on a few memories, but it was worth it.)

He brought it up the next time he saw Alberto in training. He’d been expecting a surprised reaction, but Alberto had just blushed and said that he already knew—his friends and brother had been sending him the Spanish papers, which said the same thing.

Lucas, who had rather taken a shine to young Alberto, nudged his shoulder, and said that as far as fathers went, you couldn’t ask for a better one than Stevie.

That was when Stevie entered the dressing room. Unsurprisingly, it was Lucas who brought it up.

“Hey Stevie, I didn’t know you had a son!”

Stevie looked surprised. “I don’t.” He paused, wiggled his eyebrows a bit. “at least not that I know of…”

Alberto blushed even redder, and Stevie raised his eyebrows.

“Are you torturing the young boys now, Lucas?” he asked.

“Why, are their fathers going to come beat me up?” Lucas responded cheekily. “Bertito, you should really fight your own battles, lad,” he added with a smile.

“ _Hola, Señor Gerrard_ ,” Alberto said quietly, offering his hand for Stevie to shake.

He did so, laughing as he told the young boy to call him Stevie.

“By the by, lad, has anyone told you that you look kind of like Xabi Alonso?”

Stevie asked, completely serious.

Alberto’s face turned so red it was a wonder there was any blood left in the rest of his body. Lucas broke into loud, carefree laughter, until his eyes watered.

Adam Lallana looked like he was dying to add something, holding back only because he was new to this dressing room. Sensing his friend’s hesitation, Jordan decided to speak for him.

“Stevie, he looks like _you_ , too. It’s like you and Alonso had a son.”

“And just look at him!” Stevie responded, not missing a beat, “my little boy, all grown up and playing at the best club in the world.” There was a generous cheer from everyone in the dressing room, as Stevie pulled young Alberto in for a quick hug.

Knowing that Stevie wasn’t bothered, Alberto stopped blushing at the joke, and quickly turned it into a badge of honor.


	2. Telling the (Other) Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alberto fights his teammates to cement his place as Stevie's favorite. 
> 
> in other news, Xabi didn't know he had another son, let alone one with Stevie. 
> 
> Stevie's a little too happy to tell him.

Some months later:

Stevie was out in the hall discussing tactics with Brendan when an argument, ahem, _a spirited discussion_ , broke out amongst the other players.

It was Dejan who started it (Dejan started mischief more often than you would suspect if you were to judge only by looking at his perpetually-innocent face).

“Who do you think is Stevie’s favorite?” Dejan had wondered out loud one afternoon during training, “unaware” of what mayhem would ensue. (Joe Allen had some theories about this. Let’s just say that Joe was of the belief that Dejan liked starting trouble, and was actually _quite_ aware of what he was doing, too.)

It was down to Jordan, Lucas, and Alberto, though Joe Allen (bless him) was still trying to argue that Steven, like any good captain, loved all his players equally.

“I’m his vice-captain! Of course he loves me most!”

“Yes, Jordan, but he’s loved me _longest_!”

“You two are his favorite _friends_ maybe, but I am his son! He obviously loves me the most!”

“Obviously,” Stevie said with a grin, absolutely delighted to have chosen this moment to walk into the room.

Jordan seemed a bit embarrassed to have been caught arguing over his captain’s affection. Lucas looked at Stevie for a moment, then shrugged it off with his perpetual ease.

Alberto, determined to win at all costs, ran across the dressing room and threw himself into Stevie’s arms.

“Papí Stevie, the big lads, they are picking on me!” He wailed dramatically.

Stevie chuckled at the way the words sounded, English drenched in a heavy Spanish accent.

“Is that so, _mijo_?” He asked playfully. “And have you been teasing them, by any chance?”

Alberto’s puppy eyes were legendary. Word on the street was they could silence crying babies and soothe crotchety old men in a second. Rumor had it that Alberto once _looked_ his way out of a parking ticket. Had he decided his career lay in a different direction, he could raise an army with those eyes and conquer the world, and no blood would be shed because everyone would _want_ him to rule.

Perhaps it was fitting then, that they didn’t work on Stevie. At all. He ruffled Alberto’s hair.

“Joey’s right, by the by. I love all you lads equally.”

“Yes, but you have loved me and Martin the longest, so we have the most love out of the entire team!” Lucas declared adamantly.

“Stevie is my papa, Lucas! He loves me the most!” Alberto cried with a pout.

Lucas opened his mouth to respond. Stevie shot him a look, (they’d known each other long enough for Lucas to read this look as exasperation and a silent command to _let it go, lad._ ) and abruptly he shut his mouth.

Alberto looked surprised and triumphant in equal measure, and Stevie watched his grin grow until it seemed to take up his entire face.

Stevie called Xabi that night.

“Our son has been fighting with the other boys, Xabs. What are we going to do?”

“What are you going on about, Stevie?”

“Alberto Moreno. He really does look like us, Xabi. The lads have started calling him Alberto Gerlonso.”

“Does he mind it?”

“He _loves_ it. Told all the other lads today that I loved him the most because I’m his dad.”

“He _didn’t_.”

“Word of God, Xabs. He was arguing with Lucas and Hendo over who I loved more. Can you believe it?”

“Normally, I wouldn’t. But little Albertito? Yeah, it’s not that much of a stretch, is it?”

There was a chuckle, and a moment of silence.

“He’s doing okay, though, right? He’s happy, making friends with the boys?”

“Yeah, he’s doing great. We might be his dads, but our little boy’s left us to go join Lucas and the Brazilians, it seems.” There was something quite satisfying about using the word “our” about Moreno, Stevie decided, something quite nice about sharing something concrete with Xabi, even if it was just a joke.

“He’s learning English?”

“He’s doing his best. You know better than me that it’s hard at first, Xabs.”

  
“Yes, it is. And there aren’t any Spaniards in the team at the moment, either.”

“Not in the first team, but there are a few in the U21s. He’s got some friends there, Javi Manquillo and Joao Teixeira, I think, though Teixeira is Portuguese, not Spanish.”

“You sure seem to know quite a bit. Been keeping tabs on our boy, there, Stevie?”

“You know I watch all the new boys.”

“Did you watch me like that when I came?”

Stevie blushed, but said nothing. _I watched you closer_ , he thought to himself, remembering the first day Xabi had walked in to the dressing room, swept up almost instantly by the Spanish contingent, led by Pepe and Luis Garcia. He remembers the first time they’d played together, the perfect pass landing right at his feet, as he thought to himself that _this man’s feet were magic_ , and that _we would be so good together_. _On the pitch,_ he’d added hastily to himself, even as he reminisced.

“You didn’t need watching,” he said. “You were older than he is.”

“Not _that_ much older, Stevie,” Xabi said pointedly.

“You know what I mean, Xabi,” Stevie said seriously.

In Spain, the smile on Xabi’s face faded.

“Yes, I know what you mean. I saw him, you know, when Sevilla were playing against Real in the UEFA SuperCup. It was his last match for them.”

“Yeah, I was watching,” said Stevie abruptly, “I’d known we were going to sign him, so I figured I’d see what I could learn about him. Didn’t know at the time that he wouldn’t end up playing, of course. And you’d been suspended too, so it was a complete waste.”

Xabi hadn’t known Stevie had watched that game. He wished Stevie had been watching for _him_ , and not for little Morenito. He stomped that feeling down, because it felt like jealousy, and being jealous of sunshine-personified Alberto Moreno, his son, joke or not, was just ugly. Still, Xabi wished he hadn’t been suspended, wished he had played the best game of his life that night.

Some part of him, even after all these years, still wanted to impress Steven Gerrard. It went beyond that, even. Some part of him _needed_ Stevie to admire him, to love him. _For my footballing skills,_ he added to himself, _I want him to admire me… as a footballer. And a friend._

He shook his head and focused on young Morenito.

“Afterwards, Stevie, he was crying so much, like, like his heart was broken. He was leaving home for the first time to go to Liverpool, and he was so scared. I talked to him, you know. I told him that it was a good place, a good opportunity to grow. I…I told him about the boys, and the history… and you.”

They were doing this thing again, dancing around the issue, flirting with the boundary of friendship and something else. They always did this, pushing the limit, showing affection, but always jokingly, as though they were both unwilling to risk sincerity.

“Oh yeah? All good things, I hope?”

“Of course, Stevie. You know I love Liverpool. It’s always going to be a part of me. My Jon still watches you, you know, on the telly. If we’re playing at the same time, I come home half the time to find that he’s been watching you and not me.”

Stevie laughs a deep, rich laugh, and there’s a warmth in Xabi’s stomach, the same flush of pleasure he always used to get when Stevie scored off of his passes and came barreling towards him to celebrate. The same flush of pleasure he felt whenever he made Stevie laugh, or heard Stevie praising him. The same pleasure he’d felt when his phone had rung and he’d seen Stevie’s name on the screen, and some part of him had been relieved that he was still important enough to be remembered.

(Sometimes when Xabi says Liverpool he doesn’t mean _Liverpool_ so much as he means _Stevie_ , and that is a secret he will take with him to his grave.)

“I always liked that boy of yours, Xabs. Good head on his shoulders.”

“Something I hope he shares with Albertito?”

There are no words for a moment, but neither is there silence. Xabi can hear the soft sounds of Stevie breathing as he considers the question, and it feels strangely intimate, as if they were back in the same room again. He holds the phone closer to his ear.

“Alby…” and the nickname is soft with affection, “he’s a good man, Xabi. He’s young, as I said, but he’s passionate and loyal, willing to work hard. He’s got good instincts on the pitch too.” Stevie sighs.

“I just, sometimes I worry about him, is all. He’s just so _young_ , and I, I don’t want him to get hurt. Sometimes I think that one hard defeat will crush him, and then one comes along, and he’s helping the older lads deal with it, hugging Skrts and Lucas as if he were the older one. It always surprises me, you know?”

“Should _I_ worry about him, Stevie?”

“Well, the way I see it, Xabs, is we gotta split custody of the lad.” Stevie’s voice is light again, joking. Xabi’s chest hurts for some reason, at the implication that they’ve split up, even though it shouldn’t, because _he’s_ the one that left, after all, and they were never even together in the first place, at least not in _that_ way, and, and… He decides that now is probably not the time to analyze it.

“I still love you, mate–” Xabi’s heart skips and swells, and he wishes he’d recorded that, and Stevie is still talking. 

“–But you’ve left us and moved back to Spain, so now I get our boy year round, and when he’s on holidays and internationals, you keep an eye on him. And _properly_ too. I want updates—is he happy, healthy, is he being safe, is he making friends, is he playing well, _I want to know_. Okay Xabi?”

“Anything for you, dear,” Xabi jokes, but it comes out a little too soft, a little too sincere. (probably because it’s true. If Stevie asked Xabi to quit football and take up yak farming instead, he’d pack up his football boots and start looking at farms.)

“Good,” Stevie says, “I think that between the two of us, our lad will grow up to be a properly good footballer. Won’t be long ‘til he’s taking your place on the pitch for Spain, mate.” And it’s a joke, Xabi _knows_ that, but it hits a sore spot inside, some Achilles heel he tries to keep hidden.

 

(Xabi still wakes up some days, only to be startled by his own reflection. He’s not a vain man, but the wrinkles around his eyes depress him. The beard helps, but he knows that even if he shaved it off, he wouldn’t look like a baby-faced kid anymore. He’d look like an old man, lines around his mouth to match those around his eyes. The prospect of not playing for Spain anymore is, quite frankly, terrifying. It’s unthinkable, unbearable, and he can’t even process the idea. Still, he pulls himself together enough to respond.)

“Hopefully we will get to play in the same side a few times before that happens.” There’s a little reproach in his voice, enough for Stevie to catch.

“Of course. Wouldn’t be fair for the boy to play with only one of his fathers, after all.” And the apology is there, somewhere in the shades and tones of that beloved Scouse voice that Xabi adores, and it’s enough.

They talk about their families, about Real Madrid and Liverpool, and eventually, they run out of steam. Xabi can still hear Stevie breathing in the silence, and he wonders if Stevie can hear his breathing too, wonders if he finds it irritating or endearing.

They hang up.

Seconds later, Stevie’s phone lights up with a text. “ _Send me Morenito’s number. I’ve gotta make sure you’re treating my son right, after all.”_

He smiles and obligingly sends the phone number, along with a reminder that “ _I think you’ll find_ _he’s_ our _son, Xabs, not just_ yours _. Remember that._ ”

As if Xabi could ever forget. (He could be in his nineties in some nursing home—Would Alberto come to visit, he wondered?—and still remember that he and Steven Gerrard had a son, even if it was all the damn media’s fault).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alberto gets a lot of stick from the papers. He's... not dealing with it well. 
> 
> In comes Stevie to save the day... with ice cream.

The papers were slaughtering Alberto. _I’m a grown man,_ he told himself, and did his best to believe it, too. _I’m fine. I have a great job, wonderful teammates, and the world’s most beautiful girlfriend. I’ll be fine_.

Lilia told him not to read the papers, which was great advice. Or it would be, at least, if he could actually follow it. Unfortunately, he could’t really stop himself. He told himself it was for his English, which was coming along in leaps and bounds, but only because he pushed himself so hard and his teammates were kind enough to “help” him. (Stevie taught him how to swear in roughly half an hour, with José Enrique standing by to explain what each word translated as. He used to swear a lot in Spanish, but it made Lilia frown, so now he cursed in English, pretending it was just for practice.)

Anyway, the point is, he still read the paper. And when Lilia managed to intercept it and throw it away before he can get his hands on it? Then he watched the television, which was almost worse, because the English news channels had available captions in Spanish. It was worse seeing the picture in its entirety. He missed the paper, when he could pick out certain words and pretend that the rest were kind.

He missed home, missed Sevilla, where nobody questioned whether he was good enough. He was envious of Jon Flanagan, because he _was_ Jon Flanagan, back in Sevilla—the young local lad coming up through the ranks and earning experience, wearing the club not just on his shirt, but on his _skin_ , in his blood.  

A few weeks in, the criticism had worked its way into his head. Every time he got the ball, he started thinking about which way to pass, tried to make sure he could get back and defend in time. He started over-thinking, made fewer runs forward and tried fewer risky passes. He became withdrawn, still smiling, but with more restraint. During his first week of practice, he’d done the Sturridge dance to break the ice, and he’d been quick to laugh and hug and smile ever since. Until now. His teammates noticed—they’d have to be blind not to. They hovered, unsure of what to do.

Lucas, who’d almost adopted him as one of his own at this point, and Stevie, who completely had—no ‘almost’ about it—exchange meaningful looks. Stevie stepped forward, and simultaneously, from the near-telepathy born from years of friendship on and off the pitch, Lucas stepped back, looking more at ease.

Stevie took him to get ice cream. Berto smiled, digging his spoon into the chocolate chip cookie dough, and taking a bite, humming in pleasure as the sweetness melted on his tongue, chewing the chocolate chips and the cookie dough chunks slowly.

“How are you, Alby?” Stevie was serious.

“Fine. Good, yes.” Alberto said automatically, the lie coming instinctively—he’d learned soon after coming here that when English people asked how you were, they didn’t really want the truth.

“What’s going on?” Stevie pressed, ”what’s wrong?”

Alberto put his spoon back into his ice cream and lowered his gaze, staring into Stevie’s strawberry frozen yogurt with fresh raspberries on top. They were all the same size, and all the same color, except the one that was sinking slowly into the yogurt, the rosy red being swallowed up by the creamy pink.

“Nothing is wrong,” he said slowly, feeling out the words. “Everything is…good.” His voice was soft, hesitant.

Stevie just looked at him. Berto chanced a look up, but instantly returned to Stevie’s ice cream. The raspberry was sinking down, down, down, and the others were starting to follow.

“Your ice cream is melting,” Alberto remarked mildly.

Stevie raised a brow, and deliberately took a large bite, swallowing up that raspberry Alby had been studying for the past two minutes.

“See,” he said slowly, “I took a bite like you wanted me to, and now you can tell me what’s bothering you like I want you to. Give and take, eh, son?”

Alberto swallowed hard, though there was no ice cream in his mouth. He fixed his gaze instead on a chunk of cookie dough.

“I am trying,” he said, quiet and miserable, “I am trying and working, but it is not enough. I am not good enough.”

“Not good enough to finish your ice cream? I think you can manage if you really give it a good try, son.” Stevie joked, drawing a brief, reluctant smile.

“To play for Liverpool,” Alberto clarified unnecessarily.

Stevie put his spoon back into his ice cream and pushed it away from him, towards the center of the table. Alby watched the way the muscles in his forearm moved, corded from years and years of football and training, and holding his little girls and supporting the weight of teammates. The skin was tan and strong. There was a strange scar on his arm, halfway between his wrist and his elbow, a jagged, uneven thing.

Steven noticed him looking, and turned his arm, palm facing upward, so the scar was directly in the light.

“Fell,” he said. “I was climbing a tree with my brother, and he said I was too small to go as high as he did, so I did, and then I went higher, but I fell. Branch caught me on the way down. Needed twenty-seven stitches for that one. Me ma was hysterical, cried her eyes out at the hospital.”

Berto let out a low whistle.

“Do you know how old I was when I signed for Liverpool?”

Alberto shook his head.

“I was nine,” Stevie said, and he was looking at Alby and yet not at him at the same time, eyes glazed over as he remembered that first day, Mum and Dad at his side as he’d printed his name on the contract, the letters square and shaky because his hand, still small and pale and soft, had been trembling.

“There’s this academy called Lilleshall, where the best young English players go. They didn’t pick me. I was devastated, cried for weeks. They came to play Liverpool though, and we beat them. I scored a hattrick.” Stevie’s eyes were still full of that fierce joy, that vindication shining out of him, each beat of his heart saying _good enough, good enough…_

Berto wanted to sit here forever, periodically savoring a bit of slowly melting ice cream and listening to Steven Gerrard share every story he had to tell. But still a little voice whispered in the back of his head— _of course **you’re** good enough, Stevie. You’re one of the best players in the world. But **I’m** **not**._

Stevie’s gaze focused as he stopped dwelling on memories and returned to the present.

“Alby, _mijo_ ,” he said quietly, “I’ve played football my whole life. I’ve played in three European championships and three World Cups. I’ve won the Champions League. I’ve played against Ronaldo and Messi, and with Suarez, Alonso, and Torres. I’ve played long enough now to know when someone is good enough. And you are good enough.”

Alby finally looked up, searching his captain’s eyes for some hint of insincerity, some artifice, some proof that he didn’t mean what he was saying. He didn’t find anything other than completely earnest belief.

“You have the talent, lad. But that’s not that important. Talent is random. There may be some kid in Afghanistan with more talent in his little finger than I’ve got in my entire body, but he’s not here. He won’t have the opportunity. There may be some kid in Paris with the same amount of talent, but he won’t have the will, won’t want to go training in the rain, won’t want to stop eating chips and crisps and cookies to keep himself in top form. Maybe there’s a man in Manchester with all the talent in the world, but he can’t stop getting in his own way, or a guy in Germany who thinks he’s bigger than the team.” He looks at Alberto, eyes serious, even as they soften.

“You have the talent, _mijo_. You’re here, at Liverpool. You have the opportunity. You have the will, lad, I’ve seen it burn inside you. You play as part of a team, and you bust your arse working for it. And that is why you are good enough to play for the best club in the world.” Stevie finished, with a proud smile on his face.

Alberto had always known that he wasn’t the smartest guy in the world, and so he’d made it a policy early on to listen to those more experienced and more intelligent than himself. He still wasn’t quite sure he was good enough for Liverpool, but nobody knew the club like Steven Gerrard, and Stevie had known football in his bones even before Alby had kicked about in his mother’s womb. So if Stevie said he was good enough, he was damn well going to believe it, and he was going to work as long and as hard as it took to prove it.

Alberto looked down at his ice cream, then up at Stevie.

“Can we practice penalties tomorrow? After training?”

Stevie smiled.

“That’s my boy,” Stevie says, clapping a hand to Berto’s shoulder, “’Course we can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I do now crave ice cream. This is my own fault, why do I do this to myself?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stevie's talk helps--Alberto's form bounces back. 
> 
> So much so that Vicente del Bosque shows up at Anfield one day, looking for the young left-back.

The talk with Stevie really helped. Alberto turned it around, went on a run of good form. And then the run of good form continued, until it became obvious that it wasn’t just a flash in the pan, but rather that nebulous _potential_ , finally being realized.

He was making the papers, in Liverpool and in Spain. Even Vicente del Bosque noticed, showing up to a Liverpool-United match one day, and spoke to Alberto afterwards. Stevie saw Alby going in to the meeting. He was almost trembling with excitement, Stevie knew, could read it in his wide eyes, as though he couldn’t quite believe it.

But outwardly, young Moreno stayed calm, gathering his wits and speaking respectfully to the manager, shaking his hand and nodding politely at his words.

After del Bosque left to go greet Juan Mata, Alberto burst into the dressing room.

“I’m going to play for España!” He shouted, deliriously happy.

He launched himself at Stevie, who hugged him back, feeling so, so proud of his boy.

The other lads came up one by one, to give their congratulations. Lucas pulled him in close and pressed a kiss to his hair, causing a bright, wide smile to bloom across Alby’s already joyful face. Throughout it all, Stevie stayed close, close enough that he could reach out and touch Alberto if he wanted to. He was just so pleased for the lad, whose heart had had España’s red flowing through it long before that of Liverpool had even crossed his mind.

When the other boys were done, and most of them had trickled out of the dressing room back to the coach, Alberto and himself were amongst the stragglers.

Alberto was too excited to pack, his leg bouncing enthusiastically as he listened to music. He folded his kit shirt carefully, laid it in front of his locker, and gently ran a hand over it, lingering over the embroidered Liverpool crest that had laid over his heart as it had pounded, during the match and after.

Stevie stepped over to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder as he leaned in.

“Alright, lad?”

“ _Si, Si,_ Stevie, I am…” he struggled for the word, “ _emocionado_ , and…” He faltered, eyes growing still and hesitant as he looked up to Stevie again, “ _un poco nervioso_ … nervous.”

“What if I am not good enough? There are _so many_ good _jugadores espagñoles,_ er, players from Spain.”

“You are good enough, Alby. I’ve seen you in action, you know, and I’ve played against the best players in the world. You are good enough. You work hard, you have good instincts, you’re always trying to improve. Even if you don’t get that many minutes, use this as an opportunity, okay? Talk to Xavi, talk to Iniesta, talk to Mata and Silva and Piqué, watch them and _learn_ from them. You have a good football brain, Albertito, use it. And if you don’t start, come back here. Show us what you’ve learned, until Del Bosque has no choice _but_ to put you in the starting eleven.”

Alby was looking up now, calmer and more confident, excitement tempered by determination.

“Good lad, Alby,” Stevie said fondly, pulling the boy in for a hug and ruffling his hair affectionately. “I’m so proud of you, _mijo_.”

Alby flushed with pleasure, squeezed Stevie tighter. Leaving home had been difficult, but Stevie had done his absolute utmost to make him feel more comfortable here, and Alberto loved him for it, even if he didn’t have the English to say it.

“Besides, lad, Xabi’ll be there to take care of you.”

“He will? Why?” Alberto looked up at him, innocent.

“He better, or he’ll have me to answer to! You’re not just _my_ son, you know,” Stevie responded, hands on hips, and Alberto giggled.

They each went home, Alberto to tell Lilia the good news, and Stevie to hug his girls and revel in the thrill of beating United, a thrill that somehow never got old.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alberto just found out that he's going to be away on international duty for the first time with the first team. 
> 
> Stevie thinks it's a perfect time to explain to Xabi what his paternal responsibilities are.

Later that evening, Stevie called Xabi again.

“Xabs?”

“Hi, Stevie. How are you?” Xabi’s voice was warm and pleasant.

“Fine, mate.” Stevie said distractedly, and Xabi could almost imagine him waving his hand dismissively to indicate how little it mattered how Stevie was (even though it did matter quite a lot to Xabi. There had been times when that had been the only thing that had mattered to Xabi, in fact.) 

“Listen, Alby’s going to be called up for Spain,” Stevie continued, and his voice grew in warmth.

“How do you know? _I_ don’t even know who’s going to be called up yet, for heaven’s sake!” Xabi was incredulous and a little doubtful. Steven Gerrard didn’t have many flaws, but he could be a little biased at times–the people he loved could very rarely do wrong, and were almost always more beautiful and virtuous and talented in his eyes than in any other’s. Xabi would know–he’d been on the receiving end of that affection for years. So this could really all just be Stevie having incredible amounts of faith in his teammate.

 

“Del Bosque was here, spoke to him after the United match, basically told Alby he’d be in the squad, and he told the boys right after. Can’t keep a secret to save his life, bless him.” Stevie’s voice was fond as he spoke of the younger man, and Xabi could hear the smile in his words. 

 

“That’s great news! But, uh, why are you telling me?”

“He’s still just a kid, Xabi. He’s nervous about being with the senior boys, isn’t sure he has the right amount of skill to be there.” Something shifted in Stevie’s voice, from fondness to poorly-hidden concern. It was obvious he cared for the boy, and so Xabi would too. Xabi Alonso was rather of the opinion than anything that made Steven Gerrard happy ought to be protected. And who better to do that than himself?

“Yes, I was the same when it was my first time.” Xabi remembered those early days–being nervous around the older men, being teased gently and pranked incessantly, being convinced that he didn’t actually belong there, that someone had made a clerical error and he had to seize the opportunity before the mistake was discovered and he was laughed out of the training camp. He remembered the long insomniatic nights, being too tired to read and too anxious to sleep, rehearsing plays in his mind behind closed eyes.

“Yeah, me too, but he won’t have any club teammates there to hang around with. They were the ones that took care of me when I was first starting out.” That was interesting. Xabi hadn’t known that. It was odd that Stevie hadn’t always been ultra-confident, natural-leader, born-for-the-captaincy Steven Gerrard. He supposed he had known, on some level at least, that Stevie too had once been young and scared, but that Stevie and this one didn’t mesh well. Speaking of this Stevie… well, this Stevie was still speaking, actually. 

“–He needs to be taken care of. Watch him for me?”

“Of course, Stevie.” And Xabi was pleased to have been asked, actually. It wasn’t like Steven didn’t know any of the other Spanish players. Pepe would be there, for one. Iker would be the first-choice keeper, but Pepe would provide support. He was a good guy to have around, and he had good hands, which only helped. And Pepe would love Albertito–both were sociable and quick to have a laugh. For Stevie to ask Xabi instead… it meant a lot. 

“Be kind to him, make sure you include him during training or when you and the lads hang out.”

“Yes, Stevie.”

“Hug him now and again, he gets clingy when he’s nervous.”

“Got it.” Xabi was biting back a smile now. The papers had made their ridiculous joke based on Alberto’s appearance at first. He wondered what the headlines would be if the media knew how Stevie cared for him and how devoted Albertito was to his captain in return. 

“Talk to him. He respects you as a footballer, he’ll trust what you have to say.”  Stevie’s tone was confident. He had somehow _known_ that Alberto respected Xabi. As far as Xabi could tell, that was only possible if the two of them had talked about him at some point. He imagined it, the two heads bent closer together, one with that ridiculous haircut only youth could manage, and the other with the same classic mop of brown hair he’d had since he was thirteen. The picture made something warm and pleasant grow in his stomach. 

“Stevie, I’ve been doing this for a while now too, I know how to take care of the young boys just as well as you do,” Xabi said with a laugh, “You’re being an overprotective father.”

“I am not!” Stevie said crossly, “I’m just being a good captain. He’s just _sensitive_ , and I don’t want him coming back here with no confidence just because he can’t pick up Iniesta’s skills over the course of four days.”

His voice dropped off into a sigh.

“I _like_ the boy, Xabs. I want him to do well. Just, take care of him for me?” Stevie’s voice was quiet and painfully sincere, the type of voice that won men’s hearts and their loyalties during coach rides and half-time talks, the kind of voice that won matches and trophies and quick, joyful kisses under stadium lights.

“I will take care of him, Stevie. You have my word.”

“Thanks, Xabs,” Stevie hesitated, as though trying to decide whether to leave it there or forge on with his thought. “And let him take care of you too, alright?”

  
“Sorry?”

“He has this tendency to cling to people. He finds someone and he gets attached quickly and so fiercely, and once you have his loyalty you have it forever. So if he brings you extra food or pillows or tries to give you a present or something? Just be gracious and accept it, and thank him with a little hug, okay? That’s all he needs.” Xabi would never have turned down a gift anyway, but he found it adorable that Stevie felt it necessary to tell him not to. 

“Stevie. Don’t worry. You’ve done a great job with him at Liverpool. I watched a few matches when he’d just come in and a few recent ones, and I can see the difference. He’s growing, and a lot of that is due to _you_ , Captain Fantastic. But he’s _my_ boy too, you know. He’ll be fine, I promise you.” In Liverpool, Steven Gerrard pressed a hand to his brow, trying to cool the instant flush that had risen from the praise. He bit back the instant response of  _no, no, it was all him._

“Call me if you need anything?” He asked instead.

“Of course, Stevie. If either of us needs anything, we will call you straightaway.” Xabi’s voice was warm, fond, and indulgent.

The conversation tapered off, and before long the dial tone rang in Xabi’s ears. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alberto and Xabi are together for international break, giving Xabi a chance to properly get to know the boy he's adopted as his own. 
> 
> They watch a film together, and puppies get sleepy. 
> 
> And kids don't pick a favorite parent, Xabi, even if you think it's you.

“ _Hola, Señor Alonso_ ,” Alberto had said the first time they’d met as international teammates, quiet and respectful, offering up a hand to shake.

“ _Hola, Albertito,”_ Xabi had responded fondly, and watched the younger man’s cheeks flush at the nickname.

“You talked to Stevie?” Alberto asked, scuffing his feet on the ground.

“Steven Gerrard?” Xabi asked in return.

“Is there _another_ Stevie?” Alberto had asked, voice taking a decided turn for the sarcastic, and oh, _now_ Xabi could see Stevie in him.

“No. No, there isn’t. Just the one Steven in the whole world,” Xabi returned. The potential for sarcasm was there, but the tone was wrong, like there really was just one Steven in the whole of Xabi’s world. He had been standing right there, close to Alberto, but his voice had sounded far away, as though it had traveled many miles through many years and many memories before making its way to Alberto’s ears.

  
Xabi shakes his head slightly, clears whatever thoughts were circling it like sharks around blood in the water.

“How is Liverpool? You are happy?”

“Yes,” Alberto’s voice was warm and sure, “the people in the team have been kind to me. The city is beautiful, and it’s near the ocean. The fans, they sing my name, though I have done nothing yet to deserve it.”

There is a pause, and Morenito’s voice becomes quiet and sincere.

“It is not Sevilla, but it is starting to feel like home.”

Xabi understood now why Stevie adored this boy, thought that anyone who had ever met him must have adored him. He was so earnest, so genuine and sincere. Honesty was such a rare thing to find in people now. It was even rarer in footballers, who had been trained since their youth in noncontroversial doublespeak coined especially for the cameras. Xabi would know. He was brilliant at it.

They spend the next few days training. The friendly is against Germany, which is hardly a great game to have as a first cap for a young player. Alberto’s excited though, as Xabi finds out.

“Emre will be there, Xabi! He got called up too! We can change shirts at the end of the match!” Alberto was typically excitable, rambling good-naturedly about how talented Emre was, and how nice it’d be to make their senior debuts together.

Emre is young and handsome as well as a good footballer, and for a moment, Xabi wonders… But no, Alberto clearly adores his girlfriend, speaks to her every day with cavity-inducing affection (though perhaps that’s Alberto speaking to his dog, who he also clearly adores. Xabi figures it might be best not to ask. Some things are better left unknown.). Emre must just be a friend. Perhaps Alberto is just eager for a familiar face, after a week of training with virtual strangers. All the Spanish players have been kind. It’s the nature of the camp to take care of younger players, but Xabi’s also used his influence to make sure that Alberto in particular has been looked after. He owes him that much, after all.

And so Alberto has never stretched alone during training, has never looked at the breakfast table, confused about where to sit. Each evening, after training, he’s been invited to play video games with Mata, or go watch a film with Geri and a few of the boys. He’s looked fairly comfortable, perhaps confident in his ability to win people over, or perhaps simply good at small talk. Still, even for someone as naturally gregarious as Alberto, at some point it must have been exhausting, to be on all the time, always ready with a quip or a joke or a hundred-megawatt smile.

That evening, Xabi invites Bertito back to his room to hang out, watch a bit of telly before turning in for the night. There’s a film on, with a bright yellow woman with blue hair. She’s talking to a shorter, rounder woman with blue skin and hair.

Xabi saw enough cartoons at home (nobody said being a father was easy, and if they did, they were probably doing it badly), so he went to change the channel.

  
Alberto whined for the next five minutes, explaining that the movie was called _Inside Out_ , and was adored by children and adults alike, thank you very much. Xabi sighed and changed the channel back to the cartoon. ( _Nobody said fatherhood was easy_ , he reminded himself once more. _I just didn’t expect it to extend to international teammates_.).

Alberto was smiling, though, so it was worth it, he supposed.

The film was surprisingly touching, despite Xabi’s initial disdain. It struck a chord in him, making a lot of salient points about childhood and emotion. Alberto laughed at all the jokes and kept an amusing running commentary going. Xabi chimed in now and again, but mostly he watched and listened.

As the film went on, Alberto got quieter and quieter. Xabi didn’t think it particularly significant until he heard a quiet sniffle during the final minutes. He glanced at Alberto. He was crying, Xabi realized with a pang, the trails of his tears gleaming in the dim blue light of the television.

It made sense, when Xabi thought about it. _Of course_ Alberto was more vulnerable to this particular brand of sentiment—the main character had just moved from her childhood home to a new city, and it hadn’t been long since Alberto himself had left Sevilla, and he had adored his old club, his old city.

Xabi rose and crossed the room to sit beside Alberto, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

Alberto nodded miserably, rubbing furiously at his eyes, and it was the sorriest lie Xabi had ever seen.

And so he wrapped the boy up in a hug, rocking slightly back and forth, making soft hushing noises.

“You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” he said in a soothing, reassuring voice, just the way he did to his kids when they’d fallen off their bikes or had a nightmare.

“It’s hard, I know,” he continued.

“I don’t even know _why_ —I _like_ Liverpool, I shouldn’t be— acting like a goddamn _infant_ ,” Alberto mumbled.

And Xabi knew the feeling.

“You are young, Bertito, and your heart is big enough to love more than one place at once. Liking Liverpool doesn’t mean you’ve forsaken Sevilla, _mijo_ , and missing Sevilla doesn’t mean you hate Liverpool. You love both, and that’s okay.”

Alberto nodded, or so Xabi presumed, as the boy was currently trying to burrow into his chest.

He pulled away a minute later, taking deep breaths.

“I’m okay. _Gracias_ , Xabi, for being so nice to me.”

Xabi grinned.

“ _De nada_ , mate. What else are fathers for, _mijo_?”

Alberto smiled at him.

The Incredibles was on afterwards. Half out of laziness, Xabi let it play, Alberto’s weight warm at his side. Halfway through the film, he yawned, and moved to stand up, and kick Alberto out to get some sleep. He found the boy passed out beside him. He continued sleeping soundly, even as Xabi carefully extricated himself. Xabi looked down at him, knees drawn up and hands beneath his head, and smiled. He looked at his own bed, with the odd combination of three different comforters and blankets that hotels tended to favor for whatever reason.

He pulled one of them off and draped it over Alberto. He paused, looks around, as if to make sure nobody will see, (even though it was _his_ room—who the hell could possibly see?), and with the efficiency of a busy father, tucked him in. He rested a hand gently on his hair, (and he was _not_ stroking, thank you very much) for just a moment, and then he turned off the telly.

He started to his own bed when he had a thought, and turned back to Alberto. Smiling gently, he took a picture of the sleeping boy, making sure to silence the shutter sound and turn off the flash. He laid down in bed his own bed, phone in hand.

He sent the picture to Stevie with a text, _I didn’t know Morenito was a literal puppy, mate._

Stevie responds straight away: _Did I not mention that? Must have slipped my mind. You like dogs though, don’t you?_

_:P_

_Photographic evidence that I’m taking care of Alberto until he gets back to Liverpool. Good enough for you, Dad?_

_Have you tucked him in? You may pretend to be a tough guy Xabi, but you’re a teddy bear. And he’s a puppy, so you’re two of a kind. ;)_

_Also thank you for doing this—you’re the best. :*_

Xabi stared at the kiss emoji for a long while. He was still holding his phone as his eyelids got heavier and heavier, and suddenly he was drifting away to dreamland. The phone’s light dimmed and turned off in his hand, though he found it the next day under his pillow.

 

In the morning, he woke to a frantic knock on his door. He stumbled out of bed and opens the door with a yawn.

Cesc Fabregas was standing there.

“What.” Xabi said, too sleepy to even put a questioning inflection into his voice.

“We’ve lost Morenito!” Cesc cried.

“I went to wake him up and drag him to breakfast—you know he sleeps like the dead, a rock, a log, a baby, whatever, pick your favorite analogy—and he wasn’t there, and his bed was already made up, which means he didn’t sleep there, because I swear to you, Morenito hasn’t made his bed since he was living in his mother’s house—and I called Andres to see if he knew where he was, and then Pepe, and then Iker, but nobody’s seen him. What if he’s gone? What if he was kidnapped, or had a family emergency, or had a terrible accident and couldn’t ask for help? Oh my god, Xabi, what if he’s DEAD?“

Cesc ran his fingers through his hair and shoved past Xabi into his room, presumably to pace in agitation. He started towards the window, only to stop short upon seeing Alberto, curled up on the sofa, face smushed against a pillow and just starting to stir from the commotion.

“Que hora es?” he mumbled sleepily, stretching his legs and grimacing as he sat upright on the sofa.

“You!” Cesc said accusingly, “you’re here!”

“Yes?” said Morenito, looking increasingly confused.

“You…spent the night here?”

Alberto scrunched up his face in thought, trying to shake off sleepy disorientation to remember the events of the previous night.

“I…guess I did.” he said, realization dawning across his face.

“I hope I didn’t bother you, Xabi?” He added, polite and sincere, “you could have woken me up and kicked me out, you know.”

Xabi waved a hand dismissively.

“You’re never a bother, Albertito,” he said warmly. Alberto smiled in response, and finally stood up, back popping and cracking as he leaned forward and twisted from the hips, trying to stretch his spine.

“Okay, then. I’ll just…go back to my room and get ready for breakfast?” he asked, and at Xabi’s encouraging nod, he left, walking down the hall to his room.

Xabi turned to Cesc.

“Do you remember that conversation we had about overreacting?” he asked, playfully patronizing.

“No. What conversation? Get ready for breakfast.” Cesc said shortly before turning around and leaving the room.

Xabi sighed. _This fucking team, man._

 

Xabi packed most of his stuff the night before international break ended and everyone went back to their day jobs. Still, the day of his return to Madrid, he rose early to finish up. He’d already been up for an hour when a quiet knock sounded on his door. 

 

It was Alberto. He stepped back to let him enter the room. 

 

“Come on in, I’m just wrapping up my packing,” he called out, “help yourself to some snacks if you want–I don’t want Stevie saying I starved you!”

 

Alberto chuckled quietly. 

 

“Actually, Xabi, I just wanted to give you this, to thank you for the other night and for being so kind to me this week. It meant the world to me, and I just wanted you to know that I appreciate it.”

 

“Bertito, mijo, you didn’t have to get me anything!”

 

“I wanted to.” Alberto finally brought his hands out from behind his back, and he was holding a teddy bear, of all things. 

 

“I, I thought you could give it to your kids, so it could protect them when you’re away,” Alberto explained quietly to the floor. 

 

Xabi’s eyes stung, remembering the phone calls when he’d been away, when his little girl had demanded he stay on the line all night, and Nagore had had to sneak in and hang up after she’d fallen asleep. It would be nice for her to have a teddy bear to hold when he was gone. It was really quite a thoughtful gift. 

 

He pulled Alberto into a tight hug. 

 

“They’ll love it, Morenito, thank you.”

 

Alberto blushed at the praise.

 

”You’re welcome, Papi Xabi,” he said playfully, before making a gracious exit so Xabi could finish up his packing. 

 

On his way out, he texted Stevie. _I did it-got him the bear. He really liked it–don’t think he got the joke._

 

And so Stevie, unable to resist the opportunity, shot a text to Xabi– _I know I said you were a teddy bear, but this is too much, Xabs, surely?_

_Ahh, fuck off, Stevie. You’re just upset because our son loves me more than he loves you. :P_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertito is going to become a father, which means Stevie's going to be a...
> 
> He'd rather not think about it, but Alberto need advice again and who better to ask that Stevie?

Alberto is going to be a dad, which is great, really it is. ****

The boys find out when he comes into training one morning, absolutely bouncing, so excited he can’t sit still, even more than the usual energy he exudes. ****

Lucas notices and calls out to him. “What’s going on, Alberto, lad?” ****

Berto bites his lip, wondering if he should try to keep the news to himself. ****

But he can’t, as every man in the dressing room is well aware. ****

“Lilia and I… we’re having a baby!” ****

The dressing room erupts. There are shouts of congratulations coming from all sides. Alberto is suddenly mobbed by teammates coming in for hugs, playful kisses, and a few cheeky headlocks. ****

“ _You’re_ going to be responsible for a baby? Who decided to let our baby have his own?” crows Dejan from the corner. ****

“Hey, Phil has a baby, and if he has one, any of us can have one, surely!” Emre calls from the corner. Alberto makes a mental note that Emre deserves a really good present for his birthday. Like, really good. Maybe some of that hair wax he always talks about. ****

And then the moment of truth. It’s Lucas, of course, who manages to catch a glimpse of Stevie before looking back at Alberto. Stevie can practically see the lightbulb go off. ****

“Alberto’s going to be a father…” he says slowly, with such relish that the locker room goes quiet, knowing somehow that whatever is coming is going to be _good_ , “and Stevie is Bertito’s father…” There are a few chuckles and a grins start growing across the quicker lads’ faces—Joey catches on first, and Jordan and Adam are wearing identical Cheshire cat grins—“so that means… Stevie’s going to be a granddad!” ****

Jordan looks like he’s about to chime in. Steven regrets the day he took that kid under his wing. Both of ‘em actually, Jordan and Lucas. They always spurred each other on, and their friendship was great and terrible in equal measure. ****

_But mostly terrible_ , Stevie thinks sourly. ****

“Going to be a grandpa now Stevie? This kid’ll be the first to have both his father and grandfather playing football at the same time.” ****

“Or _her_ papa and grandpapa,” Alberto interjects, faithful to his little girl even before he gets to see her, “and maybe she’ll play football, too!” And Stevie breathes a sigh of relief because this might just be enough to change the subject. ****

“Well, of course. She and baby Coutinho will be fighting for the World Cup in a few years!” Lucas jokes, and on cue, both Phil and Alberto flush in imagined pride. They both want the World Cup for themselves, of course, but the idea of their little girls winning it is just amazing. (Maybe Alberto is getting ahead of himself. He doesn’t even know if the baby’ll be a girl. He has a feeling, though.) ****

“Perhaps they’ll both play for the Liverpool Ladies’ side,” Stevie offers magnanimously, foreseeing potential for an argument to break out and forestalling it immediately. ****

“They’d win the title for sure!” added Adam brightly, and Stevie has a new favorite. That’d show Jordan and Lucas. ****

Stevie hangs around the locker room after training. He always does, just a little longer than is strictly necessary. When he was young, Sami had also tended to be slow to leave. It had been reassuring in some way, to know that if you just hung around a bit, you could talk to your captain about whatever you needed. Sometimes if a player was dragging his feet, an experienced captain could read that and take the initiative, going up and asking what was wrong instead of waiting to be approached. ****

Different players had different tells. The younger boys tended to look up every few seconds, trying to make sure Stevie was still there, but still trying to work up the nerve to actually say something. Lucas and Martin just came straight over at this point, having learned that honesty was the best way to work through problems, and not having any fear of their friend. ****

And the thing is, Alberto’s been giving him an awful lot of quick glances today, and they haven’t spoken much. Berto’s been distracted all day, understandably so if he just recently found out about the baby. The lads probably haven’t helped, either. Bless them, they mean well, truly, they do. But they tease, they joke, it’s just how the team is. ****

And it’s normally all fine and good. If the jokes were about Alberto’s hair being stupid, or his puppyish enthusiasm, or that tattoo of a chimpanzee holding a gun that nobody can fathom the reasoning behind ( _seriously, what could possibly possess a man to?—never mind_ ), then he’d deal with it, with a shrug and a chuckle. ****

But it’s his first child, and Berto is still young. He’s nervous. Stevie knows, knows that every man he’s ever known was nervous about his first baby (and yes, that includes Stevie himself). ****

Stevie looks up, as the locker room is clearing out. One of the skills a captain has to develop includes separating the players who want a quick word from the players who are just slow in packing up in general. Phil, for all his intricate footwork on the pitch, is actually quite slow about the dressing room, taking ages to shower and pack up his things, and saying a quick heartfelt goodbye to every single one of his teammates before he heads out the door. Some of the other senior players tend to hang around for the same reason as Stevie. Jordan lingers—some of the boys feel more comfortable approaching their vice captain, someone nearer to them in age. Adam hangs about because Jordan does, of course. So does Lucas, keeping an observant eye on his bunch, at least, and staying aware of the rest of them as well. ****

Alberto, on the other hand, is not. He’s not just quick on the pitch—that’s just how he lives his life. If a friend mentions a film they’d like to go see, he’ll pull up cinemas and movie times and just _go_. If he wants to learn something, he’ll just try it, over and over again, until he gets it right. (There was a brief period of disaster during which Berto decided he wanted to learn how to bake. Adam did his best, but it was nearly a hopeless case. Until one day the two of them came in bearing chocolate chip cookies, and Alberto’s smile had taken up the whole of his face. They’d been damn good cookies, too.) He works hard on the pitch and off it, but when he’s done, he doesn’t hang about much longer than he needs to. ****

Unless he’s nervous or excited, and then he moves slowly, with nervous, shaky hands, like he’s moving through molasses. ****

Stevie decides to give him a few more minutes before actually going up and asking him what’s wrong. ****

It only takes thirty seconds before a voice is asking if he’d like to get a coffee, maybe? He looks up, and nods agreeably. ****

They go out to a nearby coffee shop, where the lads go often enough that the people don’t stare so much after the first few minutes and a few pictures and autographs. Alberto waits quietly—Stevie has a few more kids come up to him, the natural consequence of being the homegrown talent turned captain of club and country, he supposes. ****

Alberto goes up and orders their drinks—his caramel macchiato and Stevie’s simple black tea, heavy on the cream and sugar. Stevie doesn’t indulge much, but when he does, he really goes for it. ****

They sit down at a table, in the corner away from the window. ****

There’s a moment of silence. Stevie’s reminded of the day he’d taken Alby out for ice cream, to try to rebuild his confidence a bit. He doesn’t want to have to go through the whole song and dance again. He’s been doing this for years now. God, he gets tired too, though he doesn’t show it. ****

So instead of speaking—the words seem to stick in his throat—he lifts his cup and has a sip. He puts it down again and raises a single eyebrow at Alby. ****

“I’m nervous,” the younger man blurts out. ****

“For the baby?” ****

“Yes, of course!” ****

“And? Everyone’s nervous for their first kid. You’re no different from the rest of us on that front, mate. Nothing I can say will make you less nervous.” ****

“Seriously? Unbelievable!” ( _Jeff_ , Stevie automatically adds in his head) “No advice to make me feel better?” ****

Stevie sighs. The joys of captaincy never end. ****

“Well, why are you nervous?” he asks. ****

“Because I am young still… I don’t know how to take care of a baby. Maybe she won’t even like me!” ****

“Nobody knows how to take care of a baby until they have a baby, _mijo_. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth of it. You can read books about it if you want to—Alex did when we were expecting our first, but they can’t tell you how to tell from the sound of a cry whether your baby is hungry or thirsty or just needs to be changed. You’ll figure that out yourself, you and Lilia together.” ****

“What if… what if I’m not mature enough or strong enough to be a good father?” ****

“Bertito, _mijo_ , your baby will love you, no matter what, first of all.” Stevie said, raising an index finger. ****

“Secondly, you will be a great father—you’re great with Pedro and Matteo and Maria doesn’t smile for anyone but you and Phil, right?” Alberto nods, smile flitting across his lips, which have whipped cream smeared across them from his coffee. ****

Stevie frowns and gestures at his own lip. ****

“You’ve got…” He sighs, folding up a napkin and just wiping away the foamy cream, completely ignoring Alberto’s cheeks turning pink with embarrassment. ****

Stevie leaves out that Maria Coutinho smiles for him, too, that all the kids smile for him, because while that makes him feel good, it’s not really relevant to Alberto’s concerns. ****

“Look, Alby, you won’t be a perfect father. There’s no such thing as a perfect father. I’m not one, Lucas isn’t one, even Phil isn’t one. Every parent will make mistakes. But you will try, and you will love your baby, whatever decision you make. And when she gets older, she will know that, and you just have to pray that she’ll forgive your mistakes and love you back in spite of them.”

Stevie’s eyes got unfocused, as he remembered cuts on little fingers when he’d hidden the scissors but not well enough, or the tears when mosquitoes bit at the soft child-flesh when he hadn’t been liberal enough with the bug spray. He remembered a million little things that seems tiny in retrospect, but at the time had filled his gut with a sickening guilt, the complete and utter certainty that he was the worst father the world had ever known, that he had dragged three innocent little girls into a life of celebrity and paparazzi without asking them…

Alberto moved to put a hand on Stevie’s.

“Your girls do love you, Papi Stevie,” he said, using the name he only used affectionately in private, “anyone can see it.”

Stevie smiles briefly.

“You were born to be a father, Alby, whether you knew it or not. You’ll be great, _mijo_ , and remember, the boys are always here if you need a spot of advice once baby comes, okay?”

Alberto nods, eyes filled with certainty and determination, the same that lights them before he takes a free kick that lands perfectly in the top corner of the goal.

“God, I don’t know how you drink that rubbish,” Stevie says, looking pointedly at Bertito’s caramel macchiato with a double shot of espresso, topped with whipped cream. “Might as well have ice cream in it, lad.”

Alberto places an arm in front of his drink possessively.

“It’s nice!” he protests, “I will never understand why you Englishmen insist on that tea every day. It doesn’t even taste good without cream or sugar!”

Stevie just laughs, not bothering to point out the hypocrisy of the argument.

“’Estefania’ isn’t bad, you know, for a girl,” Stevie says mock seriously as Alberto takes a sip.

Alberto chokes on his laugh. Stevie thumps his back solidly a few times.

“I will keep that in mind, Stevie.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stevie tells the team he's leaving at the end of the season. 
> 
> You'd think the damn world was ending. 
> 
> (Maybe they thought it was.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much father/son fun in this, but give me a couple of chapters--Stevie leaving hits everyone hard, not just Alberto and Xabi. Including Stevie.

Stevie is leaving. He knows that now. He just needs to tell the boys, and hells if that isn’t easier said than done. They have to know though, and preferably before he breaks the news to the press. He comes clean in the end, after a resounding win over Chelsea.

He’d agonized over the time—would it be better to tell them after a match or before? During a team meeting or after training or on match day? He’d opened his mouth a dozen times on a dozen different days before he went through with it. It was after a match, a resounding win, and spirits were high. And then, Stevie had made a casual remark that that would be the last time he’d ever play Chelsea, and he was glad he could end on a win.

The dressing room had gone quiet in that unnerving way that always seemed to happen when you least wanted it to.

It had been Jordan who had spoken first.

“What…do you mean… it’s your last time…playing Chelsea?” he’d asked in a slow and measured tone, like a man trying to be rational in the face of extreme provocation.

“I’m…uh… I’m leaving at the end of the season.” Stevie’d said, reaching an arm back to scratch at the back of his head awkwardly.

Joe had been the next to chime in, calm and rational as always.

“Leaving for another club, or just retiring and staying in the city?” He’d asked.

“I’m, well, I’m going to America to play out the end of my career,” he’d responded.

Jon Flanagan’s face drained of blood, turning a pure snowy white. Stevie hoped he wouldn’t faint. He took half a step closer to the boy, the muscles in his legs tense and ready to spring forward to catch him if he fell.

“You’re going? To a different club?” young Flanno asked in a shocked, horrified whisper.

“Yeah,” Stevie’d said, unable to come up with anything more substantial that that.

“Different league, too, though. I’d never play against yous.” He offers up hopefully, after a moment has passed.

Flanno sat down abruptly, and like dominos, the rest of the boys sat down too, until Stevie was the only one left standing. _What a fitting metaphor for my career,_ he thought absently, mind flitting over the men who had come and gone over the years, while he stayed, strong and steadfast.

“How long have you known?” Lucas asked, for once not smiling.

“A few weeks,” Stevie said honestly.

“ _Weeks_?” Adam had asked hoarsely, “and we’re just finding out _now_?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Stevie said frankly.

“Stevie doesn’t _owe_ us _anything_ ,” said Lucas, loyal as always and with a rare hint of steel in his voice, “He’s given us enough. It’s his life, he makes his own decisions and shares them _in his own time,_ same as the rest of us.”

The dressing room was quiet. They sat there in silence for a few moments before Stevie got up and continued packing his things. The rest of the boys followed his lead, as they always did, though the celebratory post-victory air of the locker room had well and truly deflated, and now an observer might be forgiven for thinking they’d just suffered a terrible loss, instead. For the first time in his life, Stevie was the first to leave the locker room and head to the parking lot.

It took some time, but the boys got used to it. Some of them were angry at first—Alberto didn’t speak to him or even smile at him for _days_. Others were just sad—Flanno just looked up at him, wide-eyed and young, with sorrow in his doe eyes, and Stevie hated himself for putting it there. Others still were awkward, stilted, and the news hung like an invisible wall between him and his teammates. Jordan had either guessed he would be the next captain, or feared someone else would be promoted above him. Either way, he looked at Stevie now and again, and the look in his eyes _begged_ Stevie to stay, even though he tried to play the situation as if everything was fine. There was a clear _before_ and _after_ , and anyone with eyes could tell which was which.

Lucas and Martin were the exceptions. They’d known him the longest, and they were the oldest in the locker room, too. They did their best to behave the same as they always had with Stevie. Still, Lucas hugged him more and longer, and smiled at him and joked with him more than he used to. Martin, on the other hand, internalized. They played on the same five-a-side team, and whenever anyone tackled Stevie, Martin inevitably took them down within five minutes. The tackles weren’t awful—nobody got injured—but they were unrelenting, the types of tackle normally reserved for putting the fear of God into the opposition. By the time a couple of weeks had passed, Stevie was scoring hat-tricks in training almost every day.  


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Stevie leaving at the end of the season, he asks an old friend for a favor. 
> 
> After all, Bertito's going to need someone when he's not around anymore, and Xabi can only do so much over the phone.

He still hasn’t publicly announced his intention to leave Liverpool at the end of the season, and that (and training) are the only things that makes life bearable at the moment.

He calls Lucas first, a few days before he officially takes off from John Lennon Airport with his family and all his possessions and moves to the City of Angels.

Lucas picks up on the third ring, and right after a breathless “Hello?” he breaks off, saying something in pleading Portuguese to Pedro. ( _Por favor, Pedro, não provocar sua irmã_ —Please, Pedro, don’t tease your sister)

“Hey Lucas, it’s Stevie. Bad time? I can call again in a bit.”

“Pedro…” Lucas’ voice holds a stern paternal warning, and the commotion ceases abruptly.

“No, now is fine,” he says a moment later. “What’s going on, Stevie, y’alright? How’s the family?”

“Good, good, everyone’s fine, trying to get all this packing done,” Stevie responds, kicking at a box half-full of little girls’ clothes, dresses and little jackets and blue jeans and winter parkas that he’s told Alex a million times they are _not going to need_ _in Los Angeles_.

“I can come by and help, if you’d like. I’m an expert packer,” Lucas says proudly. Stevie remembers the state of his suitcase on match away days, pristine, with everything perfectly folded and toiletries double-bagged, just to be safe, and agrees with the assessment.

“No, it’s fine. We should be okay. I just wanted to see if you could talk for a bit about the team and what’ll happen, after I go.”

“Sure thing, Stevie. Do you want me to come over? I’d have to bring the kids, because Ariana’s out doing the shopping…”

“Yeah, that’d be nice, if you don’t mind. The girls will be glad to see Pedro and Valentina again. They might end up using Valentina as a living, breathing doll, though.”

Lucas chuckled.

“I don’t think she’ll mind. She likes being the baby, I think.”

They agree on a time, and sure enough, in just under half an hour, Lucas is knocking on the door, one arm holding Valentina and the other hand at Pedro’s back.

He comes in, sets the kids loose with a gentle reminder to _behave, please, or Uncle Stevie won’t invite you over anymore._ The girls like Pedro, who’s always willing to be the robber or the baby or the husband or the superhero in whatever game they’re playing. They like Valentina too, because Lourdes has recently revolted and decided that being the baby of the family really isn’t for her, thank you very much, and Valentina hasn’t reached that point quite yet.

Stevie leads Lucas into the kitchen. He leans against the counter as Stevie bustles about, making them each a cup of tea. Lucas smiles—when he’d first arrived at the club, he’d been told (by Carra, mostly) of Stevie’s legendary tea-making skills. (Stevie had laughed, and said “it just tastes better because you don’t have to lift a hand to make it, mate.” Carra had shrugged.)

Lucas had a preternatural sense about when to let silence settle and when to interrupt. So he waited until Stevie set both cups of tea down, and they’d each settled side-by-side in the barstools before speaking.

“What’s going on, Stevie. You wanted to talk about the team?”

“Yeah,” Stevie says, looking Lucas right in the eyes. He doesn’t shrink from the eye contact, nor does he sit straighter or puff out his chest. He just meets Stevie’s gaze steadily until Stevie looks back down at his tea.

“I’m going to L.A.” He starts haltingly. Lucas doesn’t respond—doesn’t need to. Both of them know that this is old information.

“I talked to Brendan. He’s going to name Jordan captain.” Lucas looks completely unsurprised by this information.

“I know you’re the longest serving player on the team after me…” he continues apologetically. Lucas waves his hand dismissively, and so Stevie lets that train of thought go.

“I think he’ll be fine, in the end. He’s a good man, and he’s going to be a good captain.” Steven says, and Lucas waits.

“But it’s hard at first. I was a young captain, too, but I had Sami and Carra to help me, and Jordan won’t have that. So I wanted to ask you to keep an eye on him.”

Lucas looks at him and is about to speak, mouth open to form words, before Stevie continues.

“Captaincy takes a lot from a man. It can burn you out, if you let it, especially if you try to be the perfect captain.” He looks out into the distance, into the past, perhaps.

“You try to look after everyone else. It’s the captain’s job to look after the players, and you can forget sometimes that you’re one of them, and you need looking after too, same as anyone else. It’s good, when that happens, to have someone to remind you to take a break, someone to look after you and make sure you don’t lose sight of yourself.”

“Okay, Stevie. I’ll make sure he’s alright.”

“I’m sure you won’t be alone—they’ll probably have someone coming in, I’m guessing an older, fairly experienced midfielder, to replace me.” Stevie smiles wryly. Lucas looks lost, trying to understand how Stevie could think he could possibly be replaced by anyone.

“But I don’t know who that’s gonna be, and you already know Jordan.”

Lucas nods. “Quite well, I think.” He added, smiling.

“And you know the club, and you love it, I know you do.”

Lucas inclines his head in agreement.

“Between the two of you and Martin, I think the club will be just fine when I go,” Stevie says, satisfied.

“We’ll carry on, skip,” Stevie smiles at the casual abbreviation of skipper, which is exactly what Lucas had intended, “Won’t be the same, but we’ll carry on. _Go again_ , if you like.”

Stevie smiles ruefully at those familiar words. He turns to pick up the mugs they’d been drinking from, before remembering the other thing that had been preying on his mind. He sits back down.

“Oh, one more thing, Luke. Look after Berto, would you?” Stevie pauses. “He’s not taking things as well as I’d hoped.”

“He’s being a bit of a kid about the whole thing,” Lucas agrees matter-of-factly, somehow without being judgmental despite his words.

“Not surprising, really, considering his dad is moving and leaving him behind,” he adds, voice softening.

“He’s grown up a lot since he arrived,” Stevie says fondly, “but he’s still young, needs a bit of looking after now and again and he trusts you, hangs out with you and Phil all the time.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him, cap’n,” Lucas says easily, “I would’ve even if you hadn’t asked me to, you know.”

“And that’s exactly why I asked you to,” Stevie returns with a casual smile. He felt a little lighter now the weight on his shoulders easing as he knew the team would be in good hands even after he left.

They get up, and check on the kids, who are involved in an elaborate defense of the house from the neighbors, who are alien monsters, apparently, with Pedro and Lily-Ella heading their Avengers-like group of heroes.

“I have ICE POWERS,” Lourdes bellows, rushing forward, even as the elder kids linger behind to talk strategy.

Valentina is walking unsteadily behind, trying to reach out for the makeshift cape tied round her brother’s shoulders, before a colorful toy catches her eye and she plops herself onto the floor to investigate it further.

Lucas and Stevie laugh and settle in to watch some telly for a bit and let the kids play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is odd because while nearly all of it is about Alberto, the boy himself isn't in it at all--but don't worry, he's coming back. ;)
> 
> Later that summer, Liverpool signed James Milner, the older, experienced midfielder Stevie alludes to here.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stevie calls Xabi, to break the news and ask a favor.

Weeks go by, and the boys are coming round to the idea of Stevie leaving. They’ve moved on past their initial shock, and now they treat him like a king, treasuring each moment with their beloved captain. Adam makes his favorite cupcakes four weeks in a row, until Stevie finally has to ask him to take a break. He makes Stevie’s favorite cookies instead.

Everyone seems eager for a piece of him. It becomes a competition to see who can stretch with him, who jogs with him in training, who sits beside him wherever he is—the coach for away matches, at the table for a meal. Picking five-a-side teams becomes a fifteen minute debate, because everybody wants to play on Stevie’s team. Including the other team’s captain, usually Jordan. Eventually, the other team’s captain has to be rotated out so everyone can play alongside Stevie, and Brendan is generous, letting everyone play with Stevie every other day so everything is quite fair.

Eventually, by unspoken consent, a rotation forms, so everyone gets an equal share of Stevie’s time. Lucas and Martin jog at his side at the beginning of training. Jordan and Adam stretch with him. He practices pens against Migsy, who doesn’t look as upset with himself as usual when he scores. Phil and Flanno insist on partnering him for drills, even though they’re much shorter than him and the results are almost comical.

Even Phil, who’s usually so shy and quiet, a little self-conscious about his English skills, starts talking to him more, sharing stories in halting English and listening hard when Stevie speaks, brow furrowed as he tries to muddle through the Scouse accent and mine the wisdom from the words. Sometimes he’ll ask questions, just out of the blue.

“Do you remember the first time you played football?”  
“Did you ever think you wouldn’t make it?”  
“What would have made you leave Liverpool?”  
“What was your biggest regret?”  
“Who is your best footballing friend?”  
“What’s the most scared you’ve ever been?”

Stevie is open and honest in his responses—they’d be safe with his teammates, and in those last few weeks of the season, the team learns more about Stevie than they ever have before. For so long, he’s been the leader, observing and forging ahead and picking them up and carrying them on his shoulders and inspiring them every single day. But now, they know him, know his fears and strengths and weaknesses and still they love him just the same.

“Kicked me first ball while I was still in the crib, mate. Least, that’s what me dad says. Mum says I used to kick a lot before she’d even ‘ad me, and that’s when she knew.”  
“After I didn’t get picked for Lilleshall, yeah, for a couple of weeks.”   
“If the fans kept ‘avin’ a go at me mum, or Alex and the girls.”  
“Not getting the title, I think, with Liverpool. And the World Cup and Euros, for England. Shoulda done better, probably.”  
“Carra, o’course.”  
“When I was a kid, got a big rake stuck through me toe, proper like, through and through, and I thought I was gonna die at first, and then I thought I would never play football again, and I didn’t know which was worse.

And then when I was holding Lily-Ella for the first time—I thought I’d drop her or disappoint her or make her cry, and it was the most terrifying thing in the world.”

It makes it harder, knowing that he has to leave. There are some days where he looks around the dressing room before he leaves for the night, taking in the familiar sights and faces, and a lump rises in his throat. He brutally forces himself to swallow, and carries on. That’s all he can do, after all. His teammates are kind enough to leave him alone during these moments, and he loves them for it.

Alberto takes it the hardest. For the first couple of weeks, he won’t even talk to Stevie on training days, though he insists on playing beside him as much as anyone. It’s another thing that makes Stevie both look forward to and dread match days, because at least Alberto talks to him then, even though his cold professionalism leaves a bitter taste in Stevie’s mouth. The only time everything feels normal is after a goal, when everyone, Alberto included, comes barreling towards him, arms outstretched, mouths open in grins and laughs and shouts of happiness. Sometimes he looks up at the press box in those moments, and sees Redders there, smiling down at him, or Carra, absolutely beaming and fiercely proud alongside a frowning Gary Neville.

After a couple of weeks, Alberto starts talking to Stevie again, but there are no more of the usual jokes, no smiling or laughing. He’s just a footballing robot, speaking when he has to, and keeping quiet otherwise.

Stevie worries. It’s in his nature, to worry over things, and captaincy, especially at such a young age, had only worsened the habit. The rest of the boys will be fine, he knows, but Alberto’s reaction is concerning.

So naturally, he calls Xabi.

“Hi, Xabs.” Stevie says, and his voice comes through the phone crackling with static, but Xabi can still tell he’s exhausted.

“How are you, Stevie?”

“I’m leaving Liverpool at the end of the season.”

“Is this a fucking joke?” Xabi asks, and his vehemence catches Stevie off guard. He doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing.

He hears Xabi flipping through some paper, muttering distractedly under his breath.

“No es abril,” Stevie makes out. He clears his throat.

“It’s not a joke, Xabs. And it’s still only March.”

Xabi takes a deep breath, and Stevie prepares himself for the impending lecture.

“Stevie, I’ve watched Liverpool’s matches from this season,” Xabi begins,  “you’re a good team, and it’s better with you in it. You’ve still got a few years left—you don’t have to retire yet. Make the most of your time! You know we only get this for a few years before we have to stop.”

“I’m not retiring, Xabi. Not yet.”

“Then what… you’re going somewhere else? Where on earth could you possibly be going?”

“America.” He hears Xabi scoff through the phone and ignored it. “Los Angeles.”

“Just because Beckham played there doesn’t mean the football’s good, Stevie. He came running back to Paris in the end, didn’t he?”

“The league’s getting stronger, Xabs, and yeah, David has a lot to do with that. I called him and spoke to him about it a lot before I decided. He was really helpful, actually.” There’s an edge to Stevie’s voice, stubborn about his own decision and defensive, oddly enough, about Beckham.

Xabi feels a rush of dislike for Beckham, hearing Stevie call him David, and he is suddenly reminded that Stevie’s known Beckham much longer than he’s known Xabi. David had been his captain, Xabi recalls (from that autobiography he’d never admit to having read), the same way Stevie had been Xabi’s, long before they’d even met.

Xabi had never liked Beckham anyway. Massively overhyped tool, he thinks bitterly to himself. Every footballer had a set of abs, yet Beckham used his to make his money now, after he couldn’t play football anymore. (He ignored the little memory that threatened to overtake him, of watching Beckham playing when he was still a boy in his teens, and being enthralled at the way the ball moved at his feet, as if following his unspoken command.)

“It’s physical enough, the players don’t go down if you breathe on ‘em too hard, at least.” There was an edge in his voice, and Xabi wondered if he was implying something about La Liga. Maybe he was just overanalyzing.

“I probably won’t be playing every single match, I’ll get a few days to recover in between, maybe help some young lads coming up. It’s not a bad way to end a career, Xabi.”

Xabi stays silent. He wants to rage, wants to protest until he runs out of air to breathe, because Stevie’s career shouldn’t end. He was one of those men who should get to play forever at his prime, inspiring young people for generations and generations rather than spending his old age in a television studio. Finally, he speaks, letting out a noisy frustrated sigh beforehand, just to let Stevie know that he still disagrees with his decision.

“Why are you telling me this, Stevie?”

“The boys didn’t take it well at first,” Stevie says, completely ignoring Xabi’s question.

“They came round though,” Stevie continued optimistically.

“Well, most of them did. Alberto’s still mad at me,” And Xabi can almost hear the other shoe dropping. So that’s why Stevie called. Xabi is suddenly intensely grateful to Alberto for existing, because this news? It’s pretty hard to take, and it’d be worse if he’d had to hear it from the news network, with some rubbish speculation about internal club politics ruining his friend’s life. And by the way, Stevie is a grown man. His voice shouldn’t sound so despondent, like a lonely little puppy. Xabi wants to reach through the phone and hug him.

He fights to stay angry. Angry is easier. It hurts less.

“I need you to look after him for me, Xabs,” Stevie says, and his voice is soft and young and sad and Xabi hates him for doing this.

“I’ll only see him if he gets called up, you know, and then only for a few days of the year.”

“But you watch the matches. You can call him, text him maybe? Keep in touch—it’ll mean the world to him. ”

There was a pause.

“He adores you. After he came back from the Germany match, he spent a solid two weeks starting every sentence with ‘Xabi said this,’ or ‘Xabi does that,’ or ‘Xabi is the nicest human being on the planet.’” Stevie lets out a breathy laugh, and Xabi’s breath absolutely does not catch in his chest. It doesn’t. The room’s oxygen definitely hasn’t been sucked in through the phone just to supply Stevie with enough air for that laugh. That is beyond a shadow of a doubt not what happened. Even if it feels like it.

“The boys weren’t half ready to tear their hair out by the end of it. Even I was a bit jealous.” Stevie’s smiling. Xabi can’t see him, but he can hear the smile in his voice, can picture his teeth and the lines around his mouth in his head, even those wrinkles time had carved into his forehead.

Xabi doesn’t believe in regrets, doesn’t regret leaving Liverpool (and has a sparkling trophy cabinet to prove it), but he does wish, just for a moment, that he could be there. It would be historic, the last Liverpool team Steven Gerrard would play in. He would have liked to be part of that. And who knows, maybe he could have talked Stevie down if they’d been in the same dressing room, seen the signs coming and nudged him a different way. Or maybe they could have pulled off that league title, at least, and Stevie could go without that hanging over his head.

Then again, maybe it is better this way. They’ve already said their goodbyes. He can’t imagine Stevie leaving first out of the two of them. No, things are better as they stand now. At least, that’s what Xabi will choose to believe. That’s what will get him through this conversation, and the rest of this day, and the rest of this week, all the way up to that final whistle on that final day of the season, when he sits at home and watches his captain take his final bow.

“Xabs? You still there, mate? Haven’t hung up on me, have you?”

“I would never, mi querido capitán.” Xabi says, and god help him, it’s actually one of the truest things he’s ever said.

“Haven’t been your captain in years, Alonso,” Stevie says, with familiar exhaustion in his voice.

“Oh capitán, mi capitán,” Xabi responds, and is gratified with the halfhearted chuckle the joke earns from Stevie.

“Xabi,” Stevie is serious again, and some long-forgotten part of Xabi responds to the shift, spine straightening, “I need you to look after Alby. I’m counting on you. He won’t take it well, me leaving.”

“Of course I’ll look after him, Stevie, anything for you. I’ll call him every week, and he’ll be looked after on international break, you have my word.”

“Good,” Stevie says, in a businesslike voice, as though he’s just crossed off an item on a rather extensive to-do list.

“Thank you, Xabi.”

“No, thank you, Stevie. The weight of a club is not a light one, and you have worn it well. As a Liverpool fan, Stevie, thank you for what you’ve given us. And as a Liverpool player, thank you for the matches you won for us, the journeys we took together, and the memories we made. The fans will sing for you, every day until you come home again.” Xabi has no idea where the fuck that came from, and judging by the sharp intake of breath he hears through the phone, neither does Stevie.

Stevie’s done. He’s just absolutely fucking done. With this phone call, with this day.

With this season.

With this club?

He feels a sharp panic grip at his chest.

Stevie hates this version of himself, this awkward, nervous man he becomes, and only around Xabi it seems. He makes his abrupt goodbyes, waits for Xabi’s startled response, and hangs up the phone.

He does not look at it for the next five minutes. Neither does Xabi.

(Okay, so maybe they both do, a bit, give them a break, they were both feeling unusually high levels of emotion.)

And now, there’s only one person left to talk to before he goes off on his American adventure.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard leaving home, and it's hard feeling alone. 
> 
> Or Stevie and Alberto finally talk about it.

Stevie was leaving. Everyone was devastated, but they were all trying to put on a brave face. Except Alberto, who couldn’t even look Stevie in the eye anymore—not out of anger, but sadness.

“Stevie, you _can’t_ go. Who’s gonna take care of me?”

“Does Lucas not take care of you now, _mijo_?”

“Lucas is _different_ , Stevie! He is a very good friend, _si_ , but he’s not _you_.” There’s an awful break in Alberto’s voice on that last word, and it coincides neatly with the break in Stevie’s heart when he hears it.

He pulls the boy in for a hug, and Alberto’s arms instantly come up and wrap around him tight, as if he’d just scored a goal and they were celebrating. Stevie wishes that was what was happening. Anything but this would do, really.

“I know, I know,” he says soothingly, voice low and rumbly, and his hand rubs up and down Alberto’s back. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so _so_ sorry, _mijo_.”

“Are you going to come back?”

“Of course. I’m not going to be over there forever, you know.”

“When are you going to come back?” Alberto insisted.

“I… I don’t know. Maybe two or three years?”

“Two or three YEARS? I might not even be here then! What if Brendan wants me to go before then? What if I never ever see you again EVER?” And Alberto pulls away from Stevie, rapidly nearing the line between disconsolate and hysterical, and that was not a line that should be crossed, especially not by anyone quite as high-strung as Alberto.

“I’ll still call, and visit,” Stevie offered weakly, voice rising towards the end of the sentence as if asking rather than saying definitively.

“You better!” Alberto said, finger pointing accusingly at his captain. He deflated immediately afterwards.

“What are we going to do without you?” he asked, despondent.

“You’ll go on,” Stevie said, iron in his voice. “No man is bigger than the club. We’ve lost people before and we’ll lose people again. We just… go on.”

“Yes, but Stevie, we’ve never lost you before. Flanno grew up with you on his wall. _Mierda_ , so did Hendo! Can’t you, I dunno, take it back or something? Just say you want a new contract, stay a few more years. _Please_ , Stevie.”

Stevie paused. He could see it, could envision it perfectly—the armband round his left bicep, the passes, the goals, the celebrations, kissing the camera again, maybe. Maybe he still had a trophy or two left in him yet…

The vision shifted, to sitting in the stands, injured yet again, sitting on the bench, too slow to start, only good as an impact sub. And then not even that, sitting only as a figurehead on a ship, just a voice in the dressing room. And even that voice would lose its authority if he stopped getting minutes. He imagined fading, fading, fading until the whispers started about retiring, about how he had been a good player _once upon a time_ , but they needed young blood, quick legs. He remembered that brash promise to Carra years ago, that he’d do Xabi’s running for him in the charity match. Who would do his in the years to come? Would it be Jordan? Emre? Alberto himself?

There was a song, one his father had liked. When his mother had been pregnant with Stevie, his dad had told him, he’d had kicked like hell ( _that was when I first thought you might be a fair footballer,_ his dad had said fondly), except when that song was playing. How had it gone again?

“ _It’s better to burn out than to fade away,_ ” he remembered, whispering the words.

He had met two types of footballers in his years in the game—the ones that would rather fade away, playing until their legs gave out, and those that  would rather burn out, playing to the top level, and then retiring, even if they could play a few more years at a lower level. He wondered which he was.

Maybe he was both, choosing to burn out of his Liverpool career rather than letting the club down, and picking LA as his place to fade away.

He looked up, hoping against hope that Alberto hadn’t heard the absentminded words.

Judging by the look on his face, blank and stoic, he had indeed heard.

“Well, if that’s how you feel, _Señor_ Gerrard,” he said stiffly, and the formal address, which Alberto had only used once, when they were strangers, meeting for the first time, cut Stevie to the quick.

“Bertito, _mijo_ ,” Alberto looked away at the endearment, “I’m sorry.” He said again helplessly, “I have to go.”

“You’re leaving us,” Alberto says, and his voice is flat and cold, and Stevie’s never heard it like this, and it nearly makes him shiver. “We need you, and you’re leaving us. This team needs you, this club needs you, this city needs you,” there was a pause, and the words _I need you_ hung in the air, tangible and unsaid, “and you’re _leaving_ us to go to LA.”

“Alby,” Stevie’s voice was hard, even around the nickname, “I’ve been with Liverpool for twenty-eight years. I’ve given _twenty-eight years_ of my life to this club. Is that not enough?”

Alberto won’t look him in the eyes, and suddenly Stevie is tired and angry and upset.

“I’ve given these people everything, Alberto. Everything! I gave them my heart, my devotion, my _youth_! I could have moved on, won trophies in Madrid or at Chelsea, but I stayed! I stayed! Again and again and again, I stayed.”

His voice dropped low. “Now I wake up and my knees ache. Some nights, I have to sleep on the floor, because the bed is too soft, and it hurts my back. At the end of a match, my feet are swollen and my legs are bruised. I have to sit in the ice bath for half an hour before I can stand up again. I’m not fast enough to play anymore. I… _I don’t have anything left to give,_ _Alberto_. I still love football, _mijo_. But I don’t want to let this club down any more than I already have,” Stevie finished heavily, following up with a weighty sigh.

He chanced a look at Alberto. To his great surprise and chagrin, the boy was crying, a few lone tears making their way down each cheek.

Stevie sighed again, and pulled the young man under his arm. Alberto melted into him, sniffing now and again.

“I’m sorry,” came the quiet whisper.

“I know. Me too,” Stevie said, voice soft and forgiving.  

“It’s just… I’m gonna miss you,” Alberto confessed.

“And I you, lad.”

“You won’t find a new son in LA?” Alberto asked, hating himself for being childish, but still wanting to know.

“What? No way, lad! You’re the only boy I’ll ever have. ‘S’not like Alex is exactly eager to try again, anyway.”

“Will you stay if we call the baby Estefania?”

“Or Esteban,” Stevie reminded him, with a grin.

“Or Esteban,” Alberto amended, the twinkle back in his eye.

“’Fraid not, lad. Signed the contract already, the girls are excited. They think we’ll be living on the beach.”

Alberto pouted half-heartedly, widening his eyes just slightly as he looked up at Stevie through long, wet lashes.

“Come on, mate,” Stevie said, nudging him in the shoulder, “you know those puppy-dog eyes don’t work on me.”

“They work on Lucas and Hendo, though,” Alberto said with a grin, “are you sure you want to leave them to my mercy?”

“They’ll learn, I’m sure. Besides, I’ll be back round Christmas holidays, and then I’ll be checking on my grandchild, so you take good care of her, okay?”

Alberto nodded.

“Can we have a going away party?”

Stevie nodded. “Sure thing, _mijo_.”

“With balloons and cake and ice cream? And a bounce house… for the kids.”

“No, you cannot go in the bounce house, Alberto.”

“But the kids! Surely someone will need to… supervise.”

“No.”

“ _Por favor_?”

“Okay, fine.”

“You know, I hear nothing makes you feel young again like bouncing in a bounce house, Stevie.”

Stevie let out an exaggerated sigh.

“I’ll count that as a maybe, then.”


End file.
